Killer Secrets

By Dean Hovey

As alcohol lubricates the conversation at a 30th high school reunion, Judy Bloom lets slip that she had an intimate relationship with a teacher while she was a student. More revelations follow, along with the news that the teacher kept a video camera hidden in his closet. When two classmates get to the retired teachers house, they find it abandoned with evidence he’d been dragged away.

Pine County deputies Floyd Swenson and Pam Ryan work their way through the videos, finding the victims evasive and unwilling to speak. Pam Ryan’s growing cynicism spills into her personal life, driving her to a decision point with her new boyfriend who might not be ready for a lasting relationship with a cop.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Jul 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9780228613817

Book preview

Killer Secrets

Pine County Mysteries, Book 7

Dean L. Hovey

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-0-2286-1381-7

Kindle 978-0-2286-1382-4

Web 978-0-2286-1383-1

Print ISBNs

BWL Print 978-0-2286-1384-8

B&N Print 978-0-2286-1385-5

Amazon Print 978-0-2286-1386-2

Copyright 2020 by Dean L. Hovey

Cover Art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

Dedication

To all the nerds, introverts, and other misfits who were bullied.

Acknowledgement

As always, there is a group of people who deserve credit for helping mold my manuscripts into an engaging story with a minimum of mistakes. Julie reads the first draft of each book, offering opinions and correcting medical situations and terminology.

Anne Flagge, a teacher and a librarian, read numerous revisions. The storyline resonated with Anne, and she argued that the story should be told without diminishing the impact the fictional events have on the book’s characters.

Mike Westfall, Deanna Wilson, Clem MacIlravie, Dan Fouts, Brian Stuckey, and Fran Brozo read manuscripts, offered opinions, and steered me to this final version.

Many thanks to Susan Davis and Jude Pittman of BWL for their help and support.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, story, and places are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual people or events is accidental and unintended. Some locations and establishments are used fictionally. The old Sandstone school exists, although the description of the interior is entirely imaginary. My fictional deputies, Floyd and Pam, eat at several of my favorite northern Minnesota restaurants. Sonny Carlson and Jeff Telker, whose personalities add depth to otherwise dull characters, allowed me to use their names.

Chapter 1

Saturday, June 5, 2020

Sandstone, Minnesota

Rob Harkins was watching television reruns when his doorbell rang. He rarely had unexpected visitors, so his mind raced, trying to recall an order placed for something delivered so late in the evening. He stopped in front of the hallway mirror to check his hair, adjust his khaki shorts, and straighten his peach golf shirt, then opened the door. The attractive middle-aged blonde standing on his steps wore a short, form-fitting black dress with a neckline revealing a bit of cleavage. He took in her figure, not even attempting discretion, before noticing her ice-blue eyes. Her Scandinavian features required no makeup, although she wore a touch of pink lipstick.

She’s forty. No, closer to fifty.

She smiled, causing tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Mr. Harkins, I brought you a present.

I’m afraid you have the advantage over me. Her face looked familiar, but no name came to mind. He opened the screen door.

The woman held out a small brown bag with a printed label. I’m Judy Bloom, formerly Judy Baxter. I was one of your students. I’m in town for the class reunion, and I remembered that you liked herbal tea.

He looked at the label, Bloom’s Brews. Handwritten under the logo of a steaming cup was written Comfrey/Raspberry/Cranberry. Thank you, would you like to come in for a moment? He glanced again at her long legs, cleavage, and short skirt, hoping she’d accept his invitation and sit in a chair, exposing more leg. He studied her hip, looking for a panty line. Seeing none, his hopes for her acceptance rose further.

A horn sounded from the black Dodge Charger idling at the curb. Judy glanced at the car. No, I’ve got to go. But enjoy the brew, it’s from my own shop. I hand blended it for you. She leaned forward, pecked him on the cheek, then quickly walked down the steps. At the bottom step, she turned and caught him staring at her legs. Do you remember me now? she asked, before walking back to the car, careful not to catch her high heels in the sidewalk cracks.

He watched as she stepped into the car, catching a glimpse of long thighs. He returned her wave as the car pulled away from the curb. Back in the living room, he scanned the newspaper, finding the reunion announcement on the fifth page.

The Sandstone class of 1990 will be celebrating their 30-year reunion Saturday at the Sandstone golf course. Please RSVP to Shelly Ott.

He went to his spare bedroom and looked through the spines of the class yearbooks, dating from 1980, his first year as a Biology teacher at the Sandstone high school. He pulled out the 1990 yearbook and looked at the faces of the senior class. In the second row sat a shy-looking girl with mousy brown hair, glasses, and a forced smile. Judy Baxter’s picture brought back a rush of memories. He flipped to the front cover of the yearbook and found what she’d written there.

I’ll never forget you Judy

She’d been shy and insecure. Her grades were good, but she’d applied to an exclusive southern Minnesota private college. It had been easy to convince her to stay after class and earn extra credit by testing new lab experiments. Initially, they’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder while dissecting a frog. That evolved into touched arms, massaged shoulders, and eventually to anatomy lessons in his bedroom. He remembered her as shy and reluctant. She’d spent a dozen or more evenings in his bed during the fall semester of her senior year, replacing a conquest who’d graduated the previous spring.

Judy Baxter, you’ve blossomed, he said out loud, returning the yearbook to the shelf.

Of course, he hadn’t recognized her. She’d matured from the skinny insecure waif he remembered to an attractive, confident woman with her own business. After Judy’s graduation, other students needed extra credit. Some were attractive girls, seeking the grades required for college; others were less attractive but willing. He wasn’t choosy. The shy and insecure were more approachable and needier. None of them was anything but a conquest, then a sweet diversion for a night, a week, a few months, semester, or sometimes an entire school year. Some came to his bed with little persuasion. Others had higher moral standards and required alcohol or something stronger before they succumbed to his seduction.

He took the brown bag into the kitchen and microwaved a cup of water while loading the loose tea into a perforated stainless-steel ball. The tea itself was a mixture of dried berries and green leaf fragments. After allowing the tea two minutes to steep, he pulled out the tea ball and took a sip. The raspberries hit his taste buds first, followed by the tartness of the cranberries. The aftertaste was bitter but not unpleasant.

Although he’d taught biology, botany wasn’t his passion, so comfrey was unfamiliar. He Googled comfrey while he sipped and read about the myriad positive health effects provided by Symphytum officinale. At the top of the list was its value as a poultice to heal bones, so effective it was called bone-knit in the Middle Ages. In addition to broken bones, the poultice was used through history to treat everything from menstrual cramps to cancer, with more than a dozen other known medicinal uses. There were also notes that it could be used as a colon cleanse and was sometimes used in high concentrations as an emetic to induce vomiting in poisoning victims.

After half a cup, the sweetness and raspberry flavor weren’t enough to overcome the bitterness of the comfrey, so he dumped out the last of the tea and threw the brown bag into the trash. He went back to Google and searched for the flavor of comfrey but could only find useless descriptions like refreshing and moist.

Of course, it tastes moist. I made it into tea!

Harkins returned to the television, and after the early news, he brushed his teeth, then slipped into a t-shirt and flannel boxers. He added distilled water to his CPAP, strapped on the mask, and drifted off to sleep. Within minutes, he awoke to horrendous stomach cramps and ran to the bathroom. After emptying his bowels, he went to his office, opened his laptop, and reread the information on comfrey. There’s no mention of diarrhea, he said aloud as he studied another website’s description of comfrey. Then he remembered the comment about using it as a colon cleanse. I never figured Judy as a vindictive bitch.

As he read, the computer screen took on a yellow cast, and he tapped the edges a few times, thinking a connection had come loose. Within a minute, his stomach rumbled again. He dashed to the bathroom where he suffered more cramps and diarrhea, followed by uncontrollable vomiting. His heart raced, and sweat drenched him. He considered dialing 911 but didn’t dare leave the toilet, assuming the cramps would eventually pass.

A massive pain gripped his chest, and he struggled to inhale. Thinking it was a heart attack, he tipped himself off the toilet and tried to slide across the floor. Failing that, he started to write, Judy, in the vomit on the floor with his fingertip but only finished the letters J and U before his vision tunneled.

The creaking stairs pulled his focus to the open bathroom door where a pair of men’s shoes had appeared.

Thank God, he slurred without lifting his head from the floor. Call an ambulance.

You’re a mess. Here’s something to settle your stomach. You’ll be fine in a couple of minutes.

It’s the tea. That woman put something in the tea!

Harkins attempted to sit up but failed. Lying in the vomit, he took the two white pills from the large hand with chipped fingernails. He washed the tablets down with water from a Dixie cup, spilling most of it from the corner of his mouth. His stomach immediately cramped, and he clutched his belly and pulled up his knees.

You should take one after every bout of cramps. Here, take another.

After the fourth pill, his breathing and heart rate slowed.

Now isn’t that better? the reassuring voice asked.

Harkins nodded as he relaxed in the pooled vomit on the cool bathroom floor as the room darkened and then went black. A moment later, his breathing stopped.

The visitor dragged a rug from the hallway and laid it out in front of the bathroom door.

Shit! the man exclaimed as the doorbell rang. He walked into the bedroom and stepped into the closet.

The front door opened after the doorbell rang a second time. Hello? A male voice called from the entryway. Footsteps creaked around the first floor, and then they came up the stairs. The killer stood frozen in the bedroom closet, waiting for the new visitor to walk upstairs. The footsteps stopped after reaching the top step.

Hello? Anybody home? There were a few more footfalls, then, What is that smell?

The man in the closet unfolded a hunting knife.

Well look at you. I almost feel sorry for you, lying there in your own puke. The new visitor paused. So, you’re not even going to respond to that. Get your ass up. We’re going to have a talk. What the hell? You’re unconscious? The sound of an open-handed slap followed.

Damnit! You’re dead! I can’t even have the pleasure of hearing you plead for your sorry life. There were receding footfalls.

The killer slipped out of the closet after he heard the front door slam. He looked at Harkins’ body, his head lying in the hallway, his blank eyes staring at the ceiling. An engine started outside and pulled away.

The killer stared at Harkins’ body. That guy was really pissed. With relative ease, the man rolled Harkins in the rug and threw it over his shoulder. He replayed an earlier discussion…

"Drive me to the reunion, and then you dispose of him as we agreed."

"It’s a long way to carry him all the way there. Why can’t I just dump him on the steps?"

"I explained it to you, the woman replied. He’s got to be found just as I’d explained. No one will suspect us if you just do what I told you to do—without cutting any corners."

Chapter 2

Henriette Bar

Pine County Deputy Pam Ryan stood toe-to-toe with a drunk, six inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier than her. A bruise started to blossom under his right eye, and blood trickled from his nose. She pushed her index finger into his sternum, and he backed up.

Her voice exuded confidence and professionalism. Back off and hand me your driver’s license. Her brown uniform was neat, with creases sharp and leather belt shining. Blonde hair tucked under her cap, she looked angry but also totally composed.

The drunk raised his right hand, and Pam swatted it down. Take it easy, or I’ll cuff you.

But that jerk started it! the drunk protested.

I don’t care who started it. I just ended it. Give me your license. Now!

The drunk reached for his back pocket, a very unhappy expression on his face. Pam stood a half-step away from the bar, turned far enough to keep an eye on the other fighter with a cut lip. Had either of them rushed back into fighting, she’d already decided to step back and let them fight until they were tired. Based on experience, that usually took less than two minutes and twenty punches. Long, drawn-out brawls were pure Hollywood fiction. Most bar fights didn’t last more than a minute unless one of the fighters had a bunch of buddies at the bar who decided they needed to help their friend because he was getting trounced on by someone with superior skill, strength, or luck.

Pam accepted the driver’s license. The two men were too drunk to feel the full damage done by each other’s punches. They’d both be taking Advil in the morning and questioning the wisdom of getting into a bar fight.

Harper Jackson, Pam said. You live in Bloomington. What brings you to Henriette?

We’re fishing. We decided to have a couple beers and check out the Karaoke. There’s a big sign out front talking about the Karaoke contest.

Pam pointed to the man’s feet. Stand right there.

She walked to the other drunk and put out her hand. Give me your license.

Aw, shit. I didn’t do nothin’. That guy started lipping off . . .

You must not have been listening. I don’t care who said what or started what. It’s over, and I’m here to sort out the pieces. Give me your license.

The second drunk had a long black wallet attached to his belt with a chain. He pulled it out. When he opened it, his driver’s license fell out along with a half dozen credit cards. Shit, the man bent down to pick them up from the dirty barroom floor.

Pam held out her hand. Let me look at all of them.

As he handed them to her, Pam scanned the room. The round-faced, thin-haired bartender, who’d called 911 to report the fight, stood behind the bar with both hands planted firmly on the bar top. He’d been at the Henriette bar longer than Pam was a deputy. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up and speckled with blood. He’d stepped in to stop the fight before Pam arrived. She knew he’d have her back if needed.

A gray-haired guy wearing a western-cut shirt and blue jeans stayed in front of the Karaoke speakers and screen, protecting the equipment. The bar was about half-full, an equal mix of men and women, now frozen in place at their tables, watching Pam and seeing how a petite deputy would deal with the two massive bruisers.

Pam read the driver’s license. Walt Holcomb, we’ve met before. It seems to me I threw you out of the Beroun Bar a couple years ago. Are you fighting over a woman again tonight? Pam flipped through the credit cards and stopped. She looked up at Holcomb, then back at the credit card again. Face the bar and spread your feet.

She checked to make sure everyone was staying in place, then pulled handcuffs from the holder on her belt. She put the license and credit cards in her pocket, then pulled Walt’s left arm behind his back, clicking the cuff around his wrist.

Walt protested, not allowing Pam to reach for his other arm. Hey. Wait a minute. Why are you cuffing me?

Give me your arm, or I’ll hit you with the taser.

Walt continued to hold his right arm out of Pam’s reach. Why are you cuffing me?

If I taser you, I’ll cuff you while you’re quivering on the floor like a bowl of jelly.

Walt reluctantly allowed Pam to cuff his other wrist. But I’m local! That city boy tried to get in on our Karaoke party.

Pam looked around the room. Who’s here with Harper? A man raised his hand. Are you sober enough to drive?

Yeah. I’ve only had a couple beers.

Pam handed the man Harper’s driver’s license. Pay your bar tab and get Harper out of here.

But we’ve got every right to be here the same as . . .

I figure one more drink, and you’ll blow over .08 on my breathalyzer. Do you want to stay here for another drink, then spend the night in the county jail while you wait for someone to post bail? Or do you want to leave now?

The guy grudgingly dug out his wallet and slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. The bartender made a gesture indicating more. A second twenty got thrown on the bar, and the man immediately put his wallet away, grabbing Harper’s arm and walking to the door. Backwater hicks, he muttered as he pushed through the crowd.

Pam watched the tension ebb from the room. I know some of you are his friends, but Walt’s coming with me.

Why’d you let him go? Why are you arresting me?

Pam grabbed Walt’s arm, steering him toward the back door. Why do you have Cheryl Hillman’s credit card, Walt?

She’s my girlfriend.

I think she’s your ex-girlfriend, she might be willing to press charges if you’ve been using it. Pam stopped at the corner of the bar and looked at the bartender. Are we good?

He nodded and mouthed, Thanks.

The karaoke DJ invited anyone who thought they could sing a Willie Nelson song to step up as Pam pushed Walt through the back door. She paused on the sidewalk, holding a can of Mace while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The Mace was in case one of Walt’s buddies decided to follow them out. Satisfied she wasn’t going to get jumped, she led Walt to her cruiser and eased him into the back seat.

You’re not going to be sick, are you? she asked Walt as she buckled his seatbelt.

Naw, I’m mostly just pissed because you’re taking me in for having Cheryl’s credit card.

I have a hard time believing Cheryl’s your girlfriend and she gave you her credit card to take to the bar.

I was short of cash, and she went to work, so I brought her credit card.

Pam pulled out her cellphone. Give me her phone number. I’d like to verify that.

Uh, she probably doesn’t have her cellphone with her.

I’ll leave her a message. That way, she’ll know that you’re in jail and that she needs to bail you out.

No need to trouble her. One of the guys will bail me out.

Pam looked at the back door of the bar. Do you mean one of your buddies who’s coming out here to see how you’re doing. Oh! That’s right, none of them came out—they don’t seem to care. She waited for a beat. Not going to tell me Cheryl’s number? I guess I’ll have to look it up when we get to the jail.

Sergeant Floyd Swenson parked his cruiser next to Pam’s car as she closed the rear door on Walt. Looks like you don’t need my help.

They were punched out by the time I got here. All I needed to do was step between them and talk tough.

What’s with the guy you’ve got in custody? Is the bar pressing charges for busting up the place?

Nah. Walt Holcomb had a woman’s credit card in his wallet. He claims it belongs to his girlfriend. I’m going call her from the jail. I suspect either she accidentally left it somewhere, or it got stolen from her wallet.

Floyd looked at the man in Pam’s cruiser. I’m betting on stolen.

Pam nodded. I’m thinking Walt probably bought it from someone who was fencing stolen goods. I heard you take a call for the Sandstone golf course. Did they have a break-in?

The neighbors saw a bunch of cars going down the road and thought some kids were having a keg party or something. I checked on it and found the 1990 high school reunion, and it was pretty tame.

Pam did the math. That makes the attendees pretty close to fifty. I doubt they’ll be giving us much trouble.

Floyd chuckled. Probably not. Lots of them are grandparents. They’ve sown their wild oats long ago.

Chapter 3

Sandstone Golf Course

The reunion had been going for half an hour when Judy and Ray Bloom arrived, and several of Judy’s classmates were already tipsy. Patty Evans, the class treasurer, sat inside the entry collecting money. Heather Monk was next to her, handing out name tags and buffet tickets. More than half the name tags were gone when Judy stepped up to the table and handed Patty her check.

Judith Bloom. Patty studied the check, then looking up, obviously trying to tie the name with the face of the person in front of her. Recognition hit. Judy Baxter! You look fabulous!

Heather jumped up and ran around the end of the table, throwing her arms around Judy’s neck. I can’t believe you finally came to one of our reunions. Heather hugged Judy tight. Suddenly aware of the handsome man in the dark suit, Heather released Judy and offered her hand. "You must be Ray, the man who recognized the swan we all knew was underneath Baxter’s downy feathers. And Judy, I don’t think you weigh two pounds more than you did in high school, unlike the rest of us,